


the reflex

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batcow is here for plausible deniability, Crack, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, He Always Knows, Smoking, and then one day run into each other, except alfred already knows, idk i always headcanoned that they would try to smoke away from alfred, no beta we die like jason todd, we stan batcow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: “No,” Jason said, still shaken. He jabbed a finger at Batcow. “This is -- this is my thing!”“What?”“I smoke out here so Alfred doesn’t--” Jason cut off, waving his cigarettes in his direction. “You--you smoke?”Bruce took a drag from his cigarette, releasing the air over his head. “No.”
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 24
Kudos: 461





	the reflex

**Author's Note:**

> just an impulse drabble I wrote this morning. no, I don't know why either. yes, I'd also like to be updating my WIPs right now. idk why my brain chose this.

Bruce threw his coat over his shoulder, glancing back at the Manor as he focused on putting one foot after the other on the dim path. 

Three days without sleep would’ve left a normal person exhausted, possibly to the point of hysteria. He’d seen it before, overseas and undercover. Bone-tired soldiers attacking their friends, eyes wide, jumping at shadows that weren’t there. 

His hands just shook. He figured that was a small price to pay for serenity this far into sleep deprivation. 

The night seemed to swallow the house behind him, until all he could see was endless sky, a glimmer of stars, and the soft solar lights Alfred had installed on the garden paths. 

He pushed open the barn door slowly, waiting for it to creak. When it didn’t, he slipped inside, fumbling in his pocket. 

Batcow snorted at him, shuffling in his pen. Bruce grunted, finally pulling the sugar beet from his pocket. 

“Hey, buddy.” 

The cow took a step closer, eyeing the offering. Bruce held it up to its mouth, smiling when it pulled the beet from his fingers and began munching away. 

“That’s what I thought,” he said, mostly to himself, “Good cow.” 

With a sigh, he sat back against the barn shelves, drawing a pack of cigarettes and a small lighter from his pocket. 

They helped with the day three shakiness, much to Alfred’s immediate horror and objection. Nicotine always calmed him, focused him, just a little bit more, a little bit longer on a case that was almost done. Almost solved. 

He stuck a cigarette between his lips and flicked the lighter, his mind racing through the blueprints and schematics he’d been staring at for the last seven hours. 

A deep inhale, then exhale, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of smoke in his lungs, blowing it past his lips and into the cracked window above his head. 

It would come to him. It always did. 

He and Batcow sat like that for a while, smoking and chewing in silence like they always did. As much as he’d railed against the ridiculousness of Damian adopting a _cow,_ he had to admit, the animal had its benefits. 

Namely, nobody would look for him here. 

He lit a second cigarette, casting the other butt into a can he kept in the barn. He’d dispose of it later, lest he incur Alfred’s wrath. 

Another inhale, burning his throat. He felt his hands begin to steady, blood pumping in his ears. 

Batcow had finished his sugar beet when he looked up, staring plaintively at him in search of another treat. 

Bruce shrugged. 

Batcow _mooed_ softly, clearly dejected. 

Outside the barn, there was a _thud,_ followed by a soft curse. Bruce froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. 

“--I’m telling you buddy, it’s been a _day--”_

Jason stumbled into the barn, in full Red Hood gear, sans helmet, kicking at a vine wrapped around his boot. He was holding a box of Marlboros, a lighter, and an...apple? 

“--and the _fucking gas station_ was out of carrots so I--” he paused, finally looking up. Past Batcow. To _Bruce_. 

“What the…” Jason trailed off, outraged. “ _No.”_

Bruce, in infinite wisdom, decided to double down. He tapped some ash into the can, wincing internally. 

“Hey, Jason.” 

“No,” Jason said, still shaken. He jabbed a finger at Batcow. “This is -- this is _my thing!”_

“What?” 

“ _I_ smoke out here so Alfred doesn’t--” Jason cut off, waving his cigarettes in his direction. “You--you _smoke_?”

Bruce took a drag from his cigarette, releasing the air over his head. “No.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Not usually.” 

“Right.” 

“Sometimes.” 

Jason still looked one further revelation away from blowing a gasket. He kicked out a century-old milking stool and sat down, glaring at Bruce. 

“This is my space,” he finally said, digging into the box for a cigarette. “Find your own.” 

Bruce blew smoke out of his nose, grimacing. 

“You hate Batcow!” Jason insisted, lighting up. He took a drag, then gestured with the lit cigarette. “He doesn’t even like you!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Batcow loves me.”

“I bet you don’t even get him anything.” 

“I always get him something.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Also, you can’t give him that.” 

Jason paused, glancing back at the apple sitting by his feet. “...what?”

“You need to slice it first,” Bruce said, “there’s well-documented instances of cows choking on the cores.” 

Jason muttered something that sounded a lot like _of course you’d fucking know that,_ and pulled a seven inch blade from his boot. He picked up the apple, cigarette stuck in his mouth, and began slicing it. 

Sensing a budding, if strained, camaraderie, Bruce lit a third cigarette, staying silent. 

“So, uh,” Jason paused, still whittling the apple. “How often do you come out here?”

“When I can’t sleep.” 

There was a cough. 

“Hate to break it to you, Bruce,” Jason tilted his head, “but nicotine is a stimulant.” 

“It’s a stimulant and a depressant,” Bruce corrected, rubbing at his temples, “but I meant for a case.”

Jason nodded, standing from the stool. He handed Batcow the sliced apples, getting a _moo_ of pleasure for his trouble. 

“Ever tried meth?” Jason asked, glib and sitting down. 

“Yes,” Bruce said seriously, “wasn’t worth the long term deficits.” 

When he turned to look at his son, Jason was wide-eyed, genuinely surprised. 

“Am I dreaming?” he asked, shaking his head. “ _Bruce Wayne_ did meth?”

“High quality amphetamines,” Bruce corrected, mildly offended. “But yes.” 

Jason shook his head again. They smoked together in silence, punctuated by the crunching of Batcow enjoying his apples. 

“I need to get back inside,” he said finally, stubbing his cigarette into the can. For a brief moment, Jason almost looked...disappointed. “Alfred will be looking for me.” 

“Right,” Jason said, crossing his legs and appearing, to any other person, like he couldn’t care less. “Have fun with your crosswords, old man.”

Bruce smiled despite himself, pausing at the door. 

“Be safe tonight,” he said, “Batcow might miss you.” 

Jason smirked. “I’d tell you the same, but I don’t think he’d miss _you_.” 

“I give him sugar beets,” Bruce said, offended. “Of course he’d miss me.”

“ _Sugar beets?!”_

“Sugar beets.” 

Bruce exited the barn to the sound of Jason’s genuine laughter, something warm swelling in his chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
